


Nocturne in E Minor or: 5 Times Hannibal Seduced Frederick's Senses and One Time He Didn't

by pocketsfullofmice



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (what i liked writing it last time), Adultery, Character Study, Dubious consent and dubious meals, In a manner of speaking, Intercrural Sex, M/M, chilton refuses to bottom, totally one-sided frederick/alana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5190068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsfullofmice/pseuds/pocketsfullofmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick wasn't gay, he totally had a chance with Alana and he was making waves in the psychiatric world.</p><p>In reality, Frederick was bisexual, he had much as a chance with Alana as he did Will, and the head administrator never printed out his business cards.</p><p>Hannibal intoxicated his senses, reeled him in and then cast him aside like yesterday's leftovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne in E Minor or: 5 Times Hannibal Seduced Frederick's Senses and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this ages ago, hit a writer's block, and then the last two thirds just came spilling out like jizz.

_(audioception)_

Everybody heard of Hannibal before they met him- it was inevitable. His name was whispered as a prayer between people, passing smug lips and breathed over glasses of expensive champagne. They would brag about their most recent visit to his dining room table, cooing when they had been there more frequently than their companion, trying to one-up their conversation partner about the number of guests they shared the meal with. The goal was to only be the other person at the table with Hannibal.

Frederick would listen to these stories with a fixed smile, holding his breath and hoping the conversation never turned his way, not while they subject of Hannibal Lecter was present. He'd only ever seen the man from a distance, tall and broad-shouldered, always looking utterly immaculate, even when his tie had a bizarre pattern or the suit had a strange colouring that ought to clash but never did. Frederick would watch him from the opposite side of the room, and although he longed to get to know the man that everyone seemed to be so enarmoured by, he'd excuse himself and slip away whenever it appeared that Hannibal was making his way over.

There was no reason for Frederick to be so uneasy around Hannibal. He was good with people (in his mind, at any rate); smooth and suave, good at breaking the ice with a joke. But an enigma had developed around Hannibal, and the more he learnt about him, the more he realised they were one anothers equals as much as he was a potential rival. They had both worked as surgeons before turning to psychiatry. Both had histories they preferred to keep quiet about. Frederick had gone to great lengths to keep his Cuban ancestry out of public knowledge, and had long ago anglicised his Spanish name to appear more friendly and appealing to potential patients. Fernando Cevallos had been left behind long ago, when he'd applied for medical school in the United States.

But there was more. Hannibal was attractive and made the way he swanned amongst his onlookers appear effortless. He had style and grace that Frederick longed for. Where Frederick struggled to maintain a woman's gaze, Hannibal acquired it without effort. While Frederick had to find a way to edge into a conversation, people stopped and turned to Hannibal for his comments. It was frustrating and upsetting, and the more he became the topic of conversation, _Hannibal_ , _Hannibal_ , _Hannibal_ , the more Frederick began to panic over the sight of charity invitation dinners and Friday night drinks and functions that brought together psychiatrists and psychologists in formal attire. 

If only said functions didn't mean free alcohol, women in low-cut blouses and an opportunity for him to not spend the night alone.

'You're the newly-appointed psychiatrist at the Baltimore State Hospital, aren't you?'

Frederick nearly dropped the cocktail sausage he'd grabbed from a passing tray. His shiraz threatened to spill over the lip of the glass as he turned. It had always struck him as strange that Hannibal never made any effort to conceal his accent. Frederick had gone to great pains to remove every trace of his Cuban childhood; some days he even convinced himself he was incapable of rolling his _r_ s. 

His life, he realised in that moment, was built up on precariously balanced lies.

'That's right,' he said with a smile, trying to surreptitiously glance about to ensure that _he_ was being spoken to, and not some invisible coworker beside him. 'Frederick Chilton.'

He went to offer his hand, only to realise at the last moment both were full. Hannibal glanced down at the skewered sausage, smiled, and raised his eyes back up to Frederick. Fumbling for a moment, Frederick shoved it in his mouth and looked down at the tiny stick.

'My former student says you have quite the reputation.'

Frederick froze. 'Who?' he asked, his voice strangle as he still had a mouthful of meat. 

'Dr Bloom. Alana,' Hannibal clarified, that curious, amused smile still on his lips. 

He turned, and Frederick followed his gaze to the pretty brunette that Frederick had, quite fruitlessly, been trying to sleep with for the past several months. She continued to knock him back, but that didn't stop him. Some people called him dense; he preferred persistent. 

Finally swallowing, he dropped the skewer on the table beside him and tried to find a way to ask just what had been said about him. Instead, he found himself stating, 'you're quite young to have a student.'

'And you're quite young to have already changed specialties.' 

'You made the same move,' he replied quickly. He paused, before stating, 'gastrointestinal.' 

'Trauma.'

'I had a patient die.'

'I had too many die.'

Frederick could feel his cheeks burning up. The reason for his patient's death was a little too well known. Although he had justified it time and time again in his mind (there were checks for a reason, it had been a long surgery, he wasn't the only one meant to check the clamps were out, the patient was obese, the x-rays didn't see, the patient was a goddamn bleeder), the boards had argued otherwise. Dangerous incompetence. 

If Hannibal noticed his sudden piquing anxiety, he didn't acknowledge it. He just continued to watch Frederick, seemingly delighted in his unease. Swallowing hard, Frederick cast his eyes around, hoping to find a passing waiter, only to discover they were all too far away. Pressing his thumb to the base of the glass, he finished the champagne, nearly choking on it in the process. Subtly trying to clear his throat, he finally dared to look back at Hannibal. The man was still staring at him, as though he had just told a delightful joke.

'I must have you for dinner some time.'

'Huh?' The noise that came from him was more like a gurgle, from deep within the back of his throat. 'Oh. Yes, I'd enjoy that. I mean, I've heard you put on quite the spread. It must be a marvelous sight.'

'I'm planning my next event. Do you have a card with your details so I can send you an invitation?'

Frederick fumbled for a moment, immediately reaching for his pocket, before realising he didn't have any on him. In fact, he didn't have any cards yet at all. The print run, the head administrator had explained when Frederick had pressed for information, had been delayed. 

'I must have given my last one way,' he lied quickly, when his hand came out empty from his jacket pocket. 'I'll pass the details on via Dr Bloom, mm?'

For a second, it appeared as though Hannibal's smiled became fixed. It was a barely-there moment, one Frederick was certain he'd imagined, as time always seemed to still when he was anxious. Then, after a beat, Hannibal nodded.

'Of course. I'll be glad to have you at my table.' He took a step back, and, after gazing about the room, bowed his head. 'If you'll excuse me.'

With a nod of his own, Frederick watched as Hannibal headed off, gliding through the crowd with effortless poise. His heart pounded in his chest as a wave of adrenaline hit him. Although he had suffered from social anxiety and shyness as a child, he had learnt to fight it (in varying degrees of success, admittedly). Hannibal, however, was something- some _one_ \- else. Letting out a breath, he set his glass down a little too hard and picked up another. With a renewed vigor, he took in the crowd and went to find a circle of his own to worm his way into it.

*

_(ophthalmoception)_

By his thirty-fifth birthday, Frederick had finally acquired his own office, instead of sharing one at a part-time basis with another psychiatrist, at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, after having successfully completed his probationary period. He had consulted a number of times with the local police force and once with the FBI. He had been having a casual relationship with a Slovene man named Jernej and had been to dinner with Hannibal three times- twice at a dinner party and once on his own. He had yet to invite Jernej, or even bring his name up in conversation.

The fourth visit to Hannibal's dinner table had been as a small group, most of whom Frederick didn't know. He recognised their faces, if not much else. Their stories, however, were interesting, and Frederick found himself following along, nodding with rapt attention. He had begun to learn the subtle cues that made conversation like this easy; the slight lulls in a group chat where somebody had an opportunity to speak, the way people would turn their head when topics they were uncomfortable with were being broached. Psychiatry was easy; friendship not so much.

Frederick wasn't entirely certain why he was invited to these dinners. He had nothing to offer, not in terms of money or experience or class. He often felt like a black spot at the dinner table, something that had been smeared across white linen and had since been covered with a large, decorative centerpiece ever since. At times he felt that this was intended to be a learning experience, though he struggled with the concept; being forced to sit at a dinner table while others talked as though he wasn't there felt equal parts childish and degrading, and he couldn't fathom Hannibal doing that as it was unfathomably rude.

Once the guests had left, Hannibal invited Frederick to stay behind, something that Frederick was more than happy to do. Without being asked, he carried the dishes to the kitchen and began to pile them up by the sink. He was always continuously confused by how pristine Hannibal's kitchen was. The chrome surfaces never had a scratch upon them, the corners appeared to be scrubbed down each day with a toothbrush. He couldn't picture Hannibal with a mop and bucket in hand, nor had he ever heard him complain (as many others, Frederick had frustratingly discovered, of similar social standing did) about a cleaner.

He was standing there, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, wiping down the wet dishes Hannibal handed to him when the question was asked.

'When will I get to meet him?'

Frederick didn't need to ask who Hannibal was referring to. He had long accepted that Hannibal had a way of both knowing things and finding out things he didn't yet know. Although Frederick had never once brought up Jernej (or even his burgeoning questions about his sexuality), it made sense that Hannibal would know. 

Setting down a plate, a little heavier than he intended to, he kept his eyes dropped low.

'My mother hasn't even met him yet.'

'And I'm not your mother.' There was a pause, but Frederick had learnt that that typically meant a continuation was being formulated. 'Are you worried about disappointing her?'

That caused Frederick to stop and turn. He caught Hannibal's gaze and raised a brow, unable to help himself when he snorted, a little crudely. 

'Disappointing? I call her up every Sunday, and every time she says to me, “ _mi hijito_ , why don't you use the name I gave you? Why don't you move back home?”' His childhood accent came back thick, his r's rolling as he rolled his eyes. He turned back to the next plate and began wiping it down. 'She's proud that her son is a doctor, but she lies to her friends and says I'm a cardiologist. It doesn't matter that most of the first diagnosed cases of HIV in Cuba were found to be in heterosexual men, she'd still be planning my early grave.' 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal pick up a towel of his own and approach to help him dry. 

'I could marry a beautiful Cuban woman and we'd have a half dozen children, and she would still find reasons to be disappointed in me.'

Hannibal held his gaze for a beat and the nodded, the corner of his lips wanting to twitch upwards into a smile. Frederick never quite knew how to read Hannibal when he looked at him like that. There was that engulfing feeling that there was a joke at play that he wasn't a part of, but at the same time, that didn't quite make sense. Hannibal always made an effort to include people. If he disliked someone, it was with an express purpose, and he made it well known. He was yet to give Frederick any impression whatsoever that he didn't like him. He might be bad at social situations, but Frederick didn't think he was that bad.

'Can you see a future with him?'

Frederick's brows shot up. Folding his towel, he set it aside and allowed Hannibal to put away the dishes. It was the one task he seemed to prefer to do himself.

'It's been three months. The future for us right now involves seeing Fellowship of the Ring at the cinema on Saturday and trying a new Rachael Ray dish that night.'

Hannibal laughed. It was a strange sound, and something he didn't hear often. Oh, Hannibal smiled and his shoulders would shake, and there'd be a plosive breath from his nose, but he didn't ever laugh beyond a very short syllable. It was a rare gift, and one Frederick found himself blessed with. He smiled to himself as he watched Hannibal put everything away, for once allowing himself to admire his broad shoulders, the way the soft linen of his shirt pulled across his back, the hem threatening to peek out from the waist of his slacks. He quickly turned away, however, before he could get caught, and busied himself by rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning them up.

There was a rhythm to these evenings. Although he'd only ever been privy to it once before, he'd picked up most of what typically occurred from other guests. Hannibal would offer a final glass of wine (or, on occasion, whisky or port), and they'd retire to the den. The evening would wrap up and after a lazy, comfortable conversation, Hannibal would wish his guest a safe drive home and would escort them out. It was effortless and so full of class, Frederick couldn't help but be envious. He wanted to make life seem that easy, but he didn't have any real friends to practice it on. 

He accepted the offer of port, and followed Hannibal through the house where he sat down on the comfortable divan. It was a warm night, the window open and the sheer curtain flowing in the gentle breeze. Taking the glass, he thanked Hannibal and watched as he sat down opposite him.

'You've slept with him?'

That caused Frederick to cough, nearly spluttering up the drink. Catching himself, he stared at Hannibal, startled. He had no idea how to respond. Hannibal just looked back, no apology coming. The silence stretched out between them, uncomfortable and daunting.

'Yes?' Frederick finally said, more as a question.

'But you don't touch him.'

That made him pause. He could picture himself standing, perhaps even throwing the drink in Hannibal's face, and storming from the room. He could see it so clearly, but he found himself rooted in the cushion, the carpet holding his feet still. 

'I don't understand.'

'He touches you. He kisses you, he undresses you, he's the one to do the work. You respond, but only when asked. Am I right?'

Frederick felt his cheeks beginning to burn. Swallowing hard, he looked down at his glass and willed up the strength to set it down on the table.

'This is inappropriate.'

'This is true.'

Frederick's hand hovered over the glass. His finger ran around the rim as he breathed in slowly, watching the shadows dance across the carpet as Hannibal moved. 

'It's true,' he finally said.

Frederick wasn't gay. He told himself that every time things grew heavier than kissing, when Jernej became a little more insistent in what he wanted. He found Jernej attractive, and he wanted to be with him, but his gut would lurch and his mother would loom in the back of his head, his childhood pastor would glare down at him in horror. He wasn't particularly religious or especially homophobic, not anymore than the rest of society, but he couldn't bring himself to touch back unless actively encouraged. A part of him wanted to, quite desperately, but he had no idea of where to begin.

When he looked up, Hannibal was standing before him, their shoes touching. He blocked out the light, a warm, yellow halo surrounding him. Frederick's knees pressed against Hannibal's shins, pushing him back against the couch. He couldn't run- he didn't think he would, even if he had the option. His head craned up to look up at Hannibal's face, the shadows playing havoc with the sharp lines and angles of his bones. His hand came to rest on Frederick's shoulder, and he swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. 

'Why don't you show me what he's missing out on?'

Frederick waited. Hannibal didn't push him, as he'd half expected. His hand didn't tighten its grip, he didn't force him close. He simply stood there, tall and broad and as patient as always. He could leave. He could go, and Hannibal wouldn't ever utter a word. He was fascinatingly good at keeping secrets and telling lies when it was needed. This would be a secret between them, and it never needed to get brought up.

Without a word, Frederick leant in.

*  
 _(gustaoception)_

Over the following few years, Alana began to spend more time teaching and Frederick picked up several of her former patients. He was allowed to become slightly more choosy in the cases he took on within reason, and his pay started to reflect that. He was moved into a bigger office, one he could decorate as he chose, and a parking bay at the front of hospital. He had one foot firmly planted in Alana's old position as a specialist psychiatrist, and the other in his old life. His mother begrudgingly began to tell people that her son 'helped peoples brains', and if people took that to mean he was a neurologist, then she didn't correct them. Frederick accepted that was as good as it was going to get, but he was still pleased that she was no longer outright lying.

He continued to consult for the FBI, taking on bigger loads and bigger stipends as a result, and was introduced to Jack Crawford. Frederick didn't find him cold so much as he was disinclined to open up. He would smile at his jokes, but it never quite reached his eyes. Frederick tried to not take offense and told himself that humour was subjective. Besides, they were from different worlds. But he enjoyed sitting in the sterile FBI offices, talking to the agents and being the one on the display. He loved it when they entered his office even more, being the one in charge, leading the scene. He held incredible power there- he could allow them to see his patients ( _his_ patients, it held so much more weight than when he was a surgeon), or declare they were unfit for questioning that day. He was never so difficult as to impede on their investigations, but he did like to play with them.

Jernej left him before their one year anniversary. He wanted something more serious, something Frederick was reluctant to provide. He did feel split on the issue, and had wished he could have given that to Jernej, but both of them knew it was for the best. That didn't mean the breakup was amicable, and Frederick still missed Jernej's blowjobs. But he'd moved on and had short-term flings with other people, men and women alike, bobbleheaded idiots who found his job and car and pristine home amazing. They all expected him to spend money on them, and he'd drop them before he paid for more than a few dinners. The sex was worth it- even if it wasn't the sex he wanted to be having.

Not that he ever admitted it to himself. What he and Hannibal had done that night, and all that had followed, was never spoken about except during those moments. Hannibal had taught him how to relax his jaw, his hand cupping the soft underside of his chin and guided his cock in until his nose pressed against the thick thatch of hair. Spit would slide down the corners of his mouth and his muscles would ache and his cock would cry out to be touched but he'd never allow himself to take hold of it, because Hannibal would always treat him after. It had taken months for him to learn how to swallow Hannibal down- months where Jernej was kept in the dark, as was Alyssa and Henry and Fern. He learnt how to curl his tongue, how to drag it over the slit and lap at the head, until he coaxed sweet praises from Hannibal. He was a fast learner.

They never stripped completely. Flies would be undone, slacks would pool around their ankles, shirts unbuttoned, but nothing was ever taken off. They'd grind against one another, Hannibal's cock caught between Frederick's thighs as he held him on his lap, the head of erection dragging over Frederick's tight balls. Although he'd lay in bed with his other partners naked, press inside of them and wind up covered in their spit and sweat and come, this always made him feel far more bare. Hannibal would hold him in place on his lap, slicking Frederick's thighs up with lube so he could thrust between his legs more easily.

Perhaps- and this was what Frederick always found himself coming back to- it was the humiliation of it. Hannibal would only ever come inside him, and as Frederick refused to be penetrated, that meant his mouth. Hannibal would grab his hair and push him to his knees as they sat together after dinner, meat and sauce and wine still on his tongue, and use him. Sometimes he'd spill down his throat, praising him for how quickly he had learnt, how talented he was. Other times he'd ejaculate on his tongue and clamp his hand over Frederick's mouth when he pulled out, refusing to let him spit or swallow until he allowed it.

'Why do you do that?' he dared to ask one night, as he tried to not gulp the proffered wine. The memory of Hannibal's come still filled his mouth, the aftertaste still lingering on his mouth.

Hannibal smiled and sat opposite him. Barely a hair was out of place, his pants done up and shirt tucked back in. It annoyed Frederick how unflappable he was.

'The Romans used to kill flamingos just to eat their tongues,' he said as way of an answer.

Frederick tried not to scowl. He should have known better by now than to expect a straight answer from him. He'd dodge and deflect, and while he always had the feeling Hannibal never outright lied to him (much- everybody lied and Frederick himself would be lying if he said he didn't. Hannibal had begun to lose the impeccable veneer Frederick had coated him with), everything was always smoke and mirrors. It was what pulled people into Hannibal's social circle, he now realised. That mysterious, aloof air that he carried, as well as the knowledge he was far better than anyone else in the room. Frederick tried to do it himself, and sometimes it worked. Sometimes wasn't always, though.

He was becoming a regular guest at Hannibal's table now. He never sat near the head of the table, unless it was only the two of them. He was usually delegated somewhere in the middle, occasionally two or three people from the head, depending on the size of the party. But he never felt lost or alone, and he was beginning to lead conversations. It was like he was sitting in the FBI offices, the star of the show. His star didn't shine as brightly as Hannibal's, but the eyes would be on him, and people laughed at his jokes more than the agents or Jack Crawford did. His eyes would flutter to Hannibal first and then, if she was there, Alana to see their reactions. Hannibal would smile, that funny twitch of his lips and Alana would just stare at him, that bored, constipated look on her face that Frederick still found so attractive. He wondered what she'd do if she found out what happened occasionally after these dinners, but he planned to never tell her. This was his secret with Hannibal.

It didn't happen always, and Frederick suspected he wasn't the sole target, but it happened often enough that his heart would quicken when he browsed through his mail and found the thick envelope that contained an invitation within. It was a Pavlovian response of the most base kind, and one that, he guessed, was quite deliberate. But he was content with this arrangement for now, and although he wasn't entirely fulfilled, he decided he was well on his way. At any rate, his office was bigger than Alana's.

*

_(tactioception)_

Will was beautiful and he wanted him. Specifically, Frederick wanted him sitting in his office on his couch opposite him. He wanted a tape recorder between them and a pad on his lap and Will to be talking about everything that filled that beautiful head of his, with that curly mop of hair that reacted to the slightest touch of humidity. He had been whispered about almost as much as Hannibal had in psychiatric circles, but for vastly different reasons. And, unlike the circumstances that led to Hannibal being discussed, Will was almost a hermit in how often he ventured out. If Frederick had the opportunity to pin him down like a prized butterfly, his fame and notoriety would skyrocket like it had when he'd captured the Chesapeake Ripper.

Frederick wasn't gay, he'd figured that out. He was bisexual with a heavy preference for men. Oh, he still enjoyed the company of women, specifically women who wore those strange wrap dresses that certain psychiatrists had a predilection for but wouldn't give him the time of day. Alana and Will would never work out, no matter how many times Will batted those puppy dog eyes. Alana was a cat person. No, she was a fish person. Cold as a fish and as unlikely to be as cuddly. 

(She was also as bisexual as he was, and he'd hoped that to be a bonding thing for both of them, but she still refused to have a conversation with him that went on for more than two sentences. She probably enjoyed the taste of fish more than he did.)

Hannibal knew Will. Of course he knew Will, Hannibal knew everyone, and he certainly knew people who were interesting and Will... well, he was the most interesting of them all. Jealousy ran through Frederick's bloodstream, and he felt it rage deep within his chest whenever Graham's name was brought up over dinner. Hannibal had always had everything he'd aimed for, and even now, as he dragged his way up the social echelons, he was forever still several ranks below. The desire that had once burned in the pit of his belly had grown into spite and anger, and still he wanted him, him and Graham and Alana and the whole disgusting lot of them. Alana was a cold, frigid bitch, Will was a sexually inept manchild and Hannibal had used him, and Frederick wanted them all.

Hannibal guessed. He told him as he lay in his hospital bed, tracing the line of his colostomy bag, 'jealousy is unbecoming on you.'

Frederick just sniffed and wouldn't talk about it further. Any kind of privileges he had earned had long since gone. Hannibal had eyes only for Will now, and Frederick was tossed the side. He was a forgotten blip in Hannibal's past. He felt like a disgusting stain, a vulgar mark on a pristine white shirt. He'd been used for Hannibal's pleasure and amusement, and although he'd been never anything more than that, that didn't mean he'd ever wanted to truly face reality. He'd liked the cloistered world he'd built up for himself and Hannibal, even if their relationship was only ever in his mind.

And then Will had the good grace to cough up an ear.

With that, he was ushered back into Hannibal's dining room. And although he knew deep down that Hannibal only missed his friend, he could pretend and lie to himself that it was because he missed Frederick, too. Although the jealousy still stung, it was soothed by the knowledge that Hannibal had to prepare particular meals for him, that he took the time and effort to research meals that contained low protein and were easy to digest. They were as delicious as ever, nothing like the lazy meals Frederick prepared for himself, as he ate alone in his living room that contained the dying remains of the only bouquet of flowers that had been delivered from his personal receptionist. Maybe he'd marry her someday.

For the first time since he was sliced open and gutted in the most literal sense of the word, a flicker of power began to fill him again. He had what they both wanted- access to the other. And although he hated to be the middle man, the agent between both of them (it reminded him of being a boy in the middle of his parent's spiteful divorce, a messenger to their venomous words), he craved the attention most of all. He held the exclusive position, as Graham called it, of being caught in the middle of both of them. And if that didn't make him roll over in the middle of the night and bite the pillow as pleasure coursed through his veins as much as pain due to Gideon's blade, then nothing would. To hell with Alana; he had something she didn't that Hannibal wanted more.

Jealousy might have been unbecoming on him, but it filled Hannibal with a renewed vigor. If Hannibal had been disinclined to continue his facade of friendship and sexual interest in Frederick before, it was gone when Frederick let it slip he knew about his psychic driving of Graham. He wasn't above using that, and any further information about Will, to his advantage. All it would take would be the suggestion of his name, a promise of information, and he'd be pressed into the couch, a knee between his legs and Hannibal's hand up the front of his shirt. He wasn't yet sure if he believed what Will frequently accused Hannibal of, but it was interesting and he was always happy to indulge a prisoner's stories if it gave him something to control a conversation with.

Once, long ago- years now- Hannibal's hands had explored just about anywhere there was easy access and exposed skin. Now, though, they lingered in one spot. They traced over his stomach, over and over again, finding the thick ridge of scar tissue until he knew just where to touch over Frederick's shirts and vests. At first it was peculiar, but Frederick allowed it. It was a new part of his body, and it had become a part of him. He had done the same with the mysterious scars that danced over Hannibal's body.

But then it became all he'd touch. No amount of squirming would stop him from sucking the ends of it, until it bruised and blood rushed back into the old wound. He'd knee him in the ribs, push his foot against his thigh and tug his hair until he was off and Frederick could stand. Buttoning up his shirt, he'd turn away, frustrated by his continued desire because he wanted Hannibal and he wanted someone to accept that awful, grotesque blemish that now marked him as damaged goods. But the two combined kept pushing him in one, terrible direction, and Will's words would forever echo in his head.

'This has to stop,' he snapped as he shrugged on his coat and buttoned it up, shaking the thoughts from his head.

'Why?'

Hannibal hadn't dressed. He lazed on the chaise, pants undone and cock, as hard and proud as ever, resting against his hand. He was watching him fumble about, and occasionally he'd stroke his erection, giving a hum of appreciation. Frederick was equally flattered and irritated.

'Don't you- don't you _care_ about her?' he spluttered. 

'Don't you?'

'I'm not the one in a relationship with her, am I?' He was skirting the issue, but he couldn't verbalise what he wanted to.

'She doesn't fulfill all my needs.'

Frederick scoffed. 'And what's that? A would-be cadaver's wound?'

Hannibal just stared at him, silent, his gaze unwavering. Frederick uneasily looked at him and quickly turned away.

They were entering dangerous territory, and Frederick knew he was blindly leading the way. A chill went down his spine, much as it had when his mother had visited him two years prior and he'd introduced her to Chistoph. She hadn't taken it well, but the subsequent stroke eight months later and her death had meant he hadn't had to live with her religious screeching for very long. He had missed her when he'd been holed up in hospital, though. Hannibal had been his sole visitor once the FBI had left. Even his receptionist had only sent him flowers, as though the horror he'd been through was contagious and she'd wind up in the same position as him.

Licking his lips, he grabbed his discarded bag and cane. He had a long week ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal stand. He dressed slowly as he approached, tucking his cock back into pants and neatening out his clothes. He approached Frederick with a liquid, feline grace and pressed his hand to the small of his back. His arms encircled him, dragging over his waist and stomach, one hand resting on his navel and the other on his breast bone, until he could push Frederick back against his chest. This position always made Frederick feel utterly small; Hannibal was tall and broad, he never forgot that, but being pressed against him like this, held so tight that he couldn't do anything but stand there as Hannibal rubbed his cheek on his brow, his nose against his hair, it made him feel so utterly helpless.

His whole body began to sag as he willed himself to relax. Hannibal's lips brushed against his temple and his arms eased open, giving him a gentle push until he was free to step away. He struggled to hold himself up as he straightened out his shirt with shaking hands and smoothed down the cuffs of his jacket.

'You'll come to my dinner party this weekend, yes?'

Frederick inhaled sharply through his nose. The invitation had arrived two weeks earlier, and had been hanging on his fridge, alone and unopened, since then. It made him shiver every time he looked at it. Of course he'd be going: he had no one else who invited him anywhere.

*

_(olfacoception)_

Hannibal smelt like blood and death. A sour taste filled Frederick's mouth as he was pushed back against the bed, Hannibal's body pressed against him, the man's cock rubbing against the long scar that divided him in two. Each kiss drew him closer to Hannibal, even as the pounding filled his head and the knowledge that Will had given him kept echoing in his mind. His legs hitched up and Hannibal's hand slipped between them, until his fingers pressed inside Frederick.

He knew what Hannibal was. He tried to hide it, that awful fact that chased him into Jack's office earlier that day. He wasn't as good a liar as he thought he was, but he hoped if he kept this up, he'd buy himself enough time to get to safety. He held no illusions that Jack and the FBI would capture Hannibal before he came after him. Frederick just hoped he'd be long gone by then. Maybe he'd go to Argentina. 

But despite his fear and the repulsion that Hannibal now filled him with, he couldn't escape his desire. Hannibal still had a way of coaxing him back, of dragging each deep moan from within, of making him arch as his fingers crooked inside of him, something he'd never let Hannibal do until now. Frederick hated himself more than he did Hannibal. He hated himself for wanting this, for allowing this to happen, for pulling his knees up as close to his chest as he could and curving his back up until Hannibal could push more than just his fingers inside him. His fingers gripped the headboard, a shaking whine passing his lips as Hannibal dragged against him. He hated how good it felt, he hated how much more he wanted.

He was the one to move onto his hands and knees and encourage Hannibal to follow him onto all fours. His arms buckled out from underneath him and his face fell into the pillow that smelt of Alana. He didn't pity her; he loathed her. Her ignorance was disgusting, and she'd never see the truth, not until it was far too late. He wanted to spit it in her face, that even if Hannibal wasn't the monster Frederick now accepted him to be, he was still a cruel man for the way he treated her. Perhaps tonight she'd smell Frederick on her pillow and know part of the truth. It would be a gift.

Hannibal scrubbed him off in the shower afterward. A thick lather of woody smelling soaps and spearmint scented shampoos covered him, until he smelt of Hannibal. He could still pick up that stink of decaying flesh underneath it all, now that his nose could tell what it was. Shuddering, he toweled himself off and began to dress.

He was craving a cigarette. He hadn't smoked in years, not since finding out that the company Hannibal kept found it vulgar. As he sat in his car, trying not to cough, long after the dinner, Hannibal's wink chasing him from the party, he shivered and turned the heat in the car up. The cigarette burnt the back of his throat as much as the rest of his body did. He couldn't figure out what was worse for him in this scenario, and what would kill him quicker. Even if Hannibal didn't ever hunt him down, the fear of the possibility of it would still send him to an early grave.

Perhaps he'd invite Will to Argentina. 

*

_(equilibrioception)_

People would say there were only five senses, and Frederick would always roll his eyes. He was a medical professional, of course there weren't only five senses. There weren't. He would insist and point it out, and people would laugh and roll their eyes. There was a sense of balance, a sense of time. A sense of self worth and self efficacy. Hunger and pain and a person's own faculties about themselves. And people would pat his shoulder and shoot him that pitying smile, because even with his medical degree and his time spent working in the psychiatric field, Frederick Chilton still didn't quite understand social norms and expectations.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he entered his house. It was hard to say what; he hadn't exactly been at ease for the past few weeks. But an eerie sense of panic washed over him, starting first in his shoulders, where he carried most of his tension. It washed down his spine and sternum, where it settled first in the small of his back where his kidney had withered and died, and circulated down the front of his stomach to the spot just above his navel where the scar had never quite healed. Nausea washed over him, and he remembered learning at some point that the urge to gag was a deep instinct from hunter/gatherer days, when people foraged for food together, and if one member of the tribe became ill, it made sense for them to all expel the food as quickly as possible. 

Somebody had been in his house. People rarely came by at the best of times, and he could feel the echo of another person hanging in the air. The punctuated beeping that wound its way up the staircase was almost expected, and he followed it, only because he was so obviously meant to. As much as he struggled with it, he knew what would be on the other side, if not the minute details. That didn't make it any less horrifying, the dread of what he saw, the intention behind it, so painstakingly laid out for him. He could already hear the interview Jernej would give: 'how I escaped the Chesapeake Ripper'.

The whole room seemed to tilt. His legs, which didn't work the way they used to since his muscles were torn apart in his abdomen and his sciatic nerve was nicked during surgery (though which one he couldn't say, due to legal contracts), refused to work and his hands flailed weakly. Hannibal wouldn't kill him. Even as he was pulled back and the man's arms wrap around him the way they had in the past, plastic crinkling and Hannibal's hot breath on his cheek, Frederick knew he wouldn't be killed. He'd always been used by Hannibal, his second choice when the seat would be otherwise empty. Frederick had always given him what he wanted, and the option to do otherwise had somehow slipped through his fingers like water. He'd run because Hannibal has told him he would. Jack had never listened to him. He wouldn't now. Perhaps Frederick should have given him more leeway when visiting the hospital.

Will wouldn't go to Argentina with him. Alana would never respect a word that ever passed his lips. And the pretty receptionist that worked for him would never see him beyond a victim. This had been the hand of cards he'd been dealt.

His mind was thick and his limbs didn't work and he couldn't recall a time when anything had ever truly worked out for him. The time between waking up on his green, lush chair and waking up in a hospital room with his face swathed in bandages was a blur. He had been arrested, tried and executed, all without spending a single full day in a jail cell. If he hadn't been so drugged up on pain killers, he'd have thanked Miriam Lass. Though, of course, that was likely the brain damage that she had inflicted upon him. All Hannibal had down was frame him for multiple murders.

A bouquet of flowers arrived a week before he left the hospital. No card came attached, and that was more telling than anything else. For a brief instance, he considered shooting out his other eye. Hearing who shared the hospital floor with him, though, gave him a renewed vigor. The three of them would be on the same side now, and he'd hold the key to it. All he had to do was show them. Perhaps he'd invite them over for dinner.


End file.
